General Erevar stood at the window of the former king’s private receiving room, shoulders straight and hands clasped behind her back. Having brought her army from Peshnal to Devran, growing it with eager recruits all the while, it would have been satisfying to have conquered the capital city – but besieging a city would cost you dearly in supplies and even dearer in morale, and would guarantee you a bloody fight in narrow streets against civilians fighting for their homes, as well as an unconscionable loss of life and an unprofitable loss of property. She had sensibly elected to defeat the Devranese army in the field, taking all survivors prisoner and allowing her to enter the city as a triumphant conqueror. The residents watched her solemn parade with sullen resentment, but it seemed clear that they would accept her as their new king in time.
Her – their king. That had been what the Peshnali Emperor had promised, if she brought Devran to heel, as a reward for years of service and for removing the thorn in the side of the Empire. Of course, it was understood that she would be responsible for sending tribute back to the Emperor in exchange for remaining independent, but that was a small price to pay.
There was no small satisfaction to be had in overlooking land that was now her own property. The neat buildings to the north of the palace, clustered together like soldiers waiting for orders – hers. The estates she could see beyond the city – hers. The slums barely visible just outside the city walls (perhaps she could have them cleared, and new housing built elsewhere for the inhabitants? If the city were under siege, someone could burn them to bring down the wall) – hers. To think that a farmgirl from the eastern plains of Dumlore could come all this way and rise to such a position!
Footsteps on the carpet that spanned the length of the room from the door to the throne brought Erevar’s attention back inside the palace, and she turned to view the approaching guards, with their captive between them. “Captive” was not the correct word; the general made a mental note to find a better one. Perhaps “hostage”, or even “guest”.
The general’s honored guest was the Princess Liralia, the orphaned niece of the previous king and his only heir. (There were a few more distant male cousins who might make trouble, if they thought they could press their claims successfully, as well as two bastard sons who were less likely to believe they could be king, but were still locked safely away just in case.) Erevar hadn’t seen her before, having sent men ahead to – delicately, gently – secure her with her ladies, preventing her from escaping to some far-off estate where she could marshal her forces, wasting more lives before losing again; she had imagined a taller woman, someone with a more regal bearing and a harsher face. A queen, an enemy.
Liralia was instead rather petite and delicate, and did not look all of her twenty-seven years (old, for an unwed noblewoman). Baida Erevar was a tall, broad-shouldered woman, and she was used to viewing others as small in comparison, but this princess didn’t even come up to her shoulder. She had dressed herself with care: she wore a loose gown of dark blue silk, embroidered with gold at the neck, wrists, and hem; her dark hair was done up in some complicated way with a gold net, and covered with a sheer linen veil and a narrow diadem. Erevar could read nothing at all in her serene face, with her little mouth pursed slightly and her black-fringed eyes cast down. Even her long, lance-pointed ears were held at the most decidedly neutral angle that could be imagined.
The general didn’t realize that she was staring until one of the guard barked an order for the princess to bow, at which Liralia tensed. Erevar held up a hand. “That isn’t necessary.” Not only that, it was counter-productive.
The battle plan – well, the post-battle plan – had been for Erevar to wed the princess Liralia in order to maintain something of a link to the previous family of monarchs. The emperor had told her that it must be done, though he’d also reminded her of the king’s right of taking concubines to make up for a disappointing wife. He hadn’t said anything else about disappointing wives and what might be done to make up for them: no-one at court, even himself, publicly alluded to the widely believed rumors that his first wife (a noblewoman he’d married before he was named heir to the throne) had been poisoned on his orders. The prospect of a royal bride had been the least attractive aspect of the entire business to Erevar, who’d never cared for the thought of marriage even to a woman, but she’d been willing to put up with the trouble. Now, however …
For the first time in her life, Baida Erevar fervently wished to get married.
The trouble was that, unless she was much mistaken, there was no-one Princess Liralia would less like to marry than the general of the army that had invaded her country, killed her uncle, and displaced her as ruler. In her own mind, Erevar was sure, the princess had considered herself the true queen of Devran from the moment she learned that her uncle had fallen in battle.
A new campaign was in order. She must determine a strategy, then her tactics. The first thing to do would be a show of force – metaphorical force. She should be impressive, grand, magnanimous, comfortable with her new position. Then, perhaps, a war of attrition, wearing down the princess’s defenses with kindness and gallantry, ending with an all-out push to overwhelm her as surely as Erevar had overwhelmed her country.
Erevar smiled, her head held high, and clasped her hands behind her back again, which she knew made her shoulders appear broader and stronger. Her hair and clothing were not at their best, but perhaps that would make her appear dashing. “Your highness, I am more than pleased to meet you in person. Though it is unfortunate that we should be introduced under such circumstances.”
Liralia’s face did not change a whit: Erevar had no sense of whether she were affected or not. “I agree, General, that we might have met differently and more fortunately.”
“Did your uncle speak to you of the terms that I had sent to him for his surrender, before his final battle?” They had been thorough and complete, outlining King Hervandi’s abdication and naming Erevar his successor, then his retirement to the monastery of Mount Moroglu – an extremely remote abbey which accepted novices not just from the elflands, but goblins and even orcs – as well as the disposition of many of the lands and titles of his most powerful supporters to various of her own officers, as well as one or two smaller lords who had turned to her side once it became clear that she was winning. And, most importantly, from Erevar’s current position, it promised the hand of Hervandi’s heir presumptive to his conqueror in order to properly seal the transition of power.
“Yes,” she said simply. It was not clear whether she approved or not, although Erevar suspected that she didn’t, else she would have perhaps smiled.
“Although your uncle did not, of course, surrender – which,” the general added, “I would have greatly preferred – my plan is to still enact the same terms.” She waited a moment for a response, which didn’t come. “I intend to be crowned, then to marry you and have you crowned queen.”
Liralia nodded slowly at this, then finally said, “Anointed.”
“I beg your – What was that?”
“Queens here are not crowned, unless they are to reign alone. They are only anointed with the sacred oils. If unanointed, they are only the king’s wife, and not a queen at all.”
“Ah.” This explained why Hervandi’s wife, who had died in childbirth after two miscarriages, had never been referred to in the diplomatic letters and texts as a queen, Erevar supposed. “Well. I intend to have you anointed queen after my coronation and our marriage.”
There was another moment of silence in which the entire world seemed to pause, and then Liralia gathered herself and swept a deep curtsey. “Thank you,” she said, and, after another pause, “your majesty.”
It was no real kindness for General Erevar to marry her and implied no interest in her mind or body, Liralia knew. Marrying the spouse of the conquered king was a time-honored tradition, and Uncle Hervandi had left no widow: her body, once owned by the new monarch, would grant Erevar legitimacy, and make the barons follow her. Eventually, the previous dynasty would be forgotten, Liralia retreating to the background as Erevar ascended to power. It was a dull, depressing thought.
But even more depressing was the thought of being imprisoned in a drafty castle far from the capital, never even being visited by the court on progress, on the pretext of “retirement,” or worse, being executed or killed quietly with a subtle poison to prevent her being a threat to the throne. Those options were still a possibility even if she were the king’s wife or, as Erevar promised, queen – but there was at least a slender thread of hope that her physical presence had some value.
Erevar’s coronation was held five days after what would probably come to be called the Battle of the Grisong River, which was as soon as the priests would allow it. The ceremony began with a night’s vigil, alone in the temple (though it was guarded at every door and window outside); the priests and noble witnesses entered as the sun rose, the pale light streaming through the glass and faintly illuminating the white-clad figure kneeling in front of the sacred pool. As the highest-ranking of the remaining Devranese nobility, Liralia followed directly behind the priests in the procession but had little to do besides witness the proceedings.
The high priest stepped down into the pool, his own white linen gown swirling around his knees, and dipped a silver chalice into the water; standing before the tranquil woman, he poured the benediction over her head, then placed his hands on her sodden hair and intoned a prayer. Liralia shivered, in part from the chill of the early morning air, but mostly from the otherworldly feeling created by the combination of the soft white light, the rippling pool, the chanting, and the intense but calm expression of the king-to-be. It was as though they had all been transported to some ancient age by the gods, who were themselves looking on from somewhere very distant yet very close.
After the prayer, an under-priest at either side assisted Erevar in standing, and then blotted at the excess water from the priest’s blessing. Over her simple white shirt, they dressed her in a long gown of crimson velvet, and then a surcoat of cloth of gold, embroidered with concentric circles of knotwork around the neckline in crimson silk. The same under-priests assisted her in kneeling again, and the high priest, still standing in the pool, was handed a shallow bowl with the consecrated oil; dipping his fingers in it, he drew two parallel lines on her forehead followed by two horizontal ones on her collarbone, and then he leaned forward to leave a pair of dots on the back of her neck. Two more priests held out the ceremonial staffs of office, one oak and one teak, both banded and capped with silver, and the high priest placed one in each of Erevar’s hands. The last piece of regalia was the crown – a heavy gold circle studded with rubies, and topped with five blunted points – which was placed on her head before the under-priests raised her again, and the high priest left the pool.
The procession set off again, circling the interior of the temple twice. Liralia could scarcely see Erevar over the shoulders of the priests, but she kept her eyes fixed on the crown as they walked. It still did not quite feel real to her, that there should be a new king so suddenly. Then it occurred to her that she ought to feel confused instead that she was not being crowned herself, but somehow that felt even more unlikely. Probably she would never become used to this situation – probably she would always be looking about for her uncle’s looming presence.
As the procession left the temple, they assembled into two groups on the steps before it on either side of the new king: the priests to the left and the nobility, still led by Liralia, to the right. There was a small crowd in the street – not what there might have been for the coronation of a legitimate successor, but still it was larger than she had expected.
“By the grace of the gods, I present your new ruler,” declared the high priest in a hoarse bellow: “King Baida!”
A cheer rang out, more from duty than excitement, but when she peered out of the corner of her eye, Liralia saw that Erevar had raised her head higher under the weight of the crown, relaxed her ears, and flushed slightly.
There were only a few days between the coronation and the wedding, which made perfect sense to Liralia. Of course, the new King Baida must move quickly to secure her throne: it would be more difficult to depose a king and then crown her queen. The king did not give her the impression of being eager on a personal level for their union. (Liralia wondered if there had been a lover or betrothed that she left behind in the empire.) They met once a day ever since Liralia’s first audience, and Erevar – Baida – always looked at and spoke to her with the same arrogant, commanding air. The princess was her property, to be disposed of on the conqueror’s schedule. If it weren’t for the fact that this was still better than she had expected for some time, she would have despaired.
“I shall simply wear these robes again for the wedding,” King Baida told her after the coronation. “All of the tailors and embroiderers are at work on your gown, which has to be as splendid as possible. I can’t have anyone say that I’m stinting on your wardrobe, of course.”
Of course. Because she was a reflection of the king’s generosity and power, and a card to play against potentially rebellious lords.
She had to admit that her gown was splendid, though. Made of red samite, it was covered with medallions embroidered in gold and silver, depicting religious scenes and episodes from the early history of Devran; it had the wide neckline that was becoming fashionable, and while it wasn’t as form-fitting as she had heard gowns were worn in the Peshnali Empire, it skimmed over her body in a way that she was sure would result in a heated sermon about vanity and lust from the high priest very shortly. When her handmaidens dressed her, they gasped every time the silk moved over their hands, and she found herself rubbing at it and marveling at its smoothness herself. But it was weighty, heavier even than the wools she wore in the winter, and she allowed herself a moment to fear that it would overwhelm her.
After the gown was placed on her, the handmaidens braided her hair with ribbons of red silk and gold, then twisted the plaits up behind her head in a complicated arrangement she could never have managed alone. Over it all, they draped a veil of plain white samite: a square several yards in each direction, which was placed diagonally and off-center enough to drag on the ground behind her. While she had carefully held her ears back in order to keep them from being pulled down by the silk, there was nothing comfortable in being fully covered. She raised her arms, draping the samite, and the handmaidens drew a silk sash loosely around her waist over the veil, binding her in her concealment while still giving her a way to be guided by a maid at each hand.
The marriage ceremony was held privately and separately, in the most formal way. Being fully swathed in white samite, Liralia could not see any of the proceedings, but she was aware that her handmaidens had left her, and a priest and the wife of Baron Desional were with her. The priest spoke the ritual lines of tying knots, of obedience, and of the Goddess as Her husband’s helpmeet, and Liralia was glad at last of having her face completely hidden – for once in her life, she could give way to her emotions when someone else was watching her, and her lips trembled. She pulled herself together in time to give her ritual responses, and then Lady Desional confirmed that she had heard the princess’s free and clear consent. What did the king’s part consist of, she allowed herself to wonder briefly, before her handmaidens returned to lead her, still bound, to the main audience chamber.
Finally, there were hands on the sash, working at the complex bridal knot; then the samite was carefully drawn back and dropped to the floor behind her, and she flinched against the sudden light. Erevar was standing in front of her, a bulk that she unexpectedly found reassuring; her hands were still held out from having unveiled her bride, and her eyes were wide and – astonished? Liralia had no time to think about what exactly her new spouse’s expression meant, as Erevar took her hand and turned her to the assembled Devranese nobles and Peshnali military officers as the new wife of the new king.
Liralia had expected something more to change after the wedding than simply her bedchamber, but she had no greater insight into King Baida’s motives: the barrier of formality remained between them. A part of her had worried that once they were married, Baida would move on from her condescension to more active reminders of her power, in much the same way that her uncle had begun by only watching her when she had come to court, and progressed to physical threat after his wife, Lady Kationa, passed away in her last attempt at childbirth. There was, of course, still time for that to happen – but it seemed that the new king might not have such plans. Her behavior was, in fact, utterly perplexing.
Erevar, on the other hand, felt that her plans were moving forward at the perfect pace. The princess – king’s-wife – must have been awed by the commanding nature that even the Devranese soldiers respected, and Baida had made sure to offer her some sort of gift at every meeting. A pleasant northern estate, remote from the capital, for summer visits; a promise of a harvest festival for her to preside over; the suggestion that the two of them make a state visit to Peshnal before the rains; trinkets she had acquired in her travels across the continent.
But after a week, it seemed to Erevar that these were not having any sort of effect on her wife. She accepted them with a nod, a curtsey, and a “thank you, my king,” but she detected no weakening of the defenses. What did she want? A soft smile of pleasure, those lovely eyes glancing directly up into hers in surprise, perhaps a gasp and an informal exclamation. Did her wife have some other lover, she wondered – she was beautiful enough to attract them, and resentment at being separated from them would explain her stubborn refusal to warm to her husband. A stab of jealousy went through her and she shifted in her chair by the fire, then reflexively looked over at Liralia, seated across the room as a handmaiden combed out her long, dark hair.
The two shared a bed, as was appropriate for their situation, but had yet to consummate the marriage. For all that the former general preferred to conquer armies in a decisive push, she was firmly against doing so to a lover, and was reasonably content to lie beside her on the feather mattress until such time as the king’s-wife had been seduced.
Liralia, on the other hand, considered herself well-prepared for a loveless bedding – well, she’d been expecting to be married off since she was fourteen, when King Hervandi had begun to use her betrothal as a weapon in his armory. She was rather surprised that it hadn’t happened yet, and supposed that Baida Erevar was simply unwilling to bother with her any more than was necessary. It was clear that her spouse viewed her as a way to hold and display power, and that was …
It was unfortunate, as King Baida was the handsomest woman Liralia had ever seen. In other circumstances, she would have been extremely pleased for her marriage to have been arranged with such a person, particularly, if she were honest with herself, to end a war. That it seemed not to be was a bitter note that she found herself contemplating daily.
Once the handmaiden had finished plaiting Liralia’s hair, she curtseyed and gave a small smile to her mistress before leaving; she never spoke frankly with her maids, but they could see that she was not the sort of wife she wished to be, and she was grateful for the small support they gave. She was about to raise herself from her chair and put herself to bed when the king suddenly strode across the room and knelt at her feet with a vigor and earnestness she’d never displayed to Liralia before.
“I can’t go on like this,” Erevar said after a moment in which she tried to gather her thoughts and failed. “I can’t – I want – I don’t want to bother you, but I have to ask. Is there any hope? For me?”
Liralia likewise attempted to gather her thoughts, and likewise failed. She sat, frozen and silent, for a long moment, staring at her own knees in their nightrail – this was not the King Baida that she had come to know, arrogant and self-assured and uninterested in her opinion. “What?” she finally asked.
“I don’t know how to say it,” Erevar said, suddenly helpless; how was having a simple discussion with her wife so much more difficult than planning and executing a pincer maneuver? “I don’t … I’ve been making sallies for days, and they don’t seem to have had the effect I wanted. Is there – if there is anyone else, I understand, and I won’t stand in your way.”
None of this made any sense with the narrative that Liralia had deduced, and she found herself still unable to reply. “Sallies?”
“The gifts – I want to give you whatever will make you happy, I just can’t tell what it is. I’ve tried everything I can think of, but I will give up if you tell me to.”
Something hurt inside her chest, and Liralia put a hand up to press at it without thinking. “Those gifts were for me?”
Erevar frowned. “Yes, of course, who else could they be for?”
“I thought …” It seemed stupid now, but it also seemed time to confess. “I thought that they were not gifts, but orders. The estate – somewhere I could go when you didn’t want me at court; the visit to your emperor, a way to display the subjugation of Devran.”
It was suddenly very obvious to Erevar how each of her offered gifts had been an insulting affront. What had she been thinking? Well, she had never really been in this position when it came to courtship … “No! I swear on all my men, I only wanted to give you things – the things that you deserve.” She recklessly plunged forward in a way that she would never on the field. “I would drape you with gold and jewels until you couldn’t stand, and fill up a stable with destriers for you. Oh, I suppose you wouldn’t want destriers … I would fill up a stable with palfreys for you to ride!” She had risen up on her knees in her vehemence, and only then noticed and sat back on her heels, watching Liralia’s face anxiously. Did she seem mad, unhinged? Like she saw her wife as a possession to be bought? How did people express themselves?
Liralia opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. Really, this was extraordinary, beyond anything she had ever expected! “I … I …” When had her eyes become so wet? She shot up to her feet and struggled a few steps away as the king stood more slowly, with a wary look in her eyes. The composure she always prided herself on had deserted her utterly, and she covered her mouth with one hand.
“It’s hopeless, then,” said Erevar, dully. There had probably been a better, less frantic way of putting her feelings. Probably the king that Liralia should have married – the real king, born to royalty – would have been able to confess the love he felt without terrifying his wife. Her ears dropped and she crossed her arms, rubbing at her biceps in a semblance of an embrace, subconsciously seeking out some kind of physical reassurance, and so she was completely unready for Liralia to turn around and fling herself at her.
“I’m sorry,” Liralia breathed, clutching at Erevar’s sleeves. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t understand –”
“It’s not – it was not your responsibility to understand, it was mine to –”
“Yes, but it should have been obvious given that –”
“No, no, I won’t hear of it!” Erevar insisted, laughing a little in a shaky way. “From this point on, we’re to consider the fault entirely mine.”
“I shall consider it another of your gifts to me,” said Liralia, “perhaps your kindest yet.”
“Absolutely not. It’s your gift to me, second to the gift of yourself at our wedding. Oh, if you could only know what I thought when I unwrapped you.” By this point, she had uncrossed her arms and taken her tiny wife in them instead, which felt like their truest purpose, and she rested her chin on Liralia’s head. “By the gods, you are a wonder.”
“Perhaps we might talk more in bed?” Liralia asked shyly. Then, looking up, she finally wore on her face that sweet smile that Baida Erevar had hoped to see for so many days.